It's Just A Talk
by EveningAngel
Summary: Usually it was Scott who would accompany him. It had been like that for years, just him and his best friend, and they'd go sit in front of his mother's grave for a few hours, and they wouldn't say a word. But this year Scott doesn't come.


Notes: Stiles and Isaac are cuties and together they're adorable cuties and ugh. Also, the title is a line from How to Save a Life by The Fray, because it's what I'm listening to right now, so why not? I hope you like it!

Usually it was Scott who would accompany him. It had been like that for years, just him and his best friend, and they'd go sit in front of his mother's grave for a few hours, and they wouldn't say word. Scott would squeeze Stiles' shoulder every once and a while, and Stiles would attempt a smile, but he'd always mess up, but Scott understood, and so Scott wouldn't mention it.

This year, though, Scott hadn't showed up. He'd waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Thirty. An hour. An hour and a half. He texted him. He waited again. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. He gave up. Scott wasn't going to be joining him. And as much as he tried to convince himself that that was okay, he knew it wasn't. It made his head spin and his eyes water and sting, but he didn't cry. It was stupid to cry over something like that.

So he got in his Jeep, and he drove to the cemetery. Usually he picked up a bouquet of flowers - lilies; his mother's favorites - but today, he couldn't be bothered. He knew he'd break down crying in the store, and he'd rather spare himself the humiliation.

His mother's grave was as it had been the last time he saw it. Plain, simple, and haunting. He ran his fingers over her name as he sat down in front of it, sniffling loudly. God he wished Scott was here. He checked his phone again, just in case; but there was no reply, and Stiles didn't have it in him to give his friend a call. Come to think of it, he was probably busy with Isaac, or trying to become a better person. But it was okay, he thought. Everything was fine.

He sat there for what seemed like hours, though it had barely been minutes when he jumped up at the sound of a familiar voice behind him. "Hey." It was quiet, gentle - testing, unsure of how Stiles might react. He jumped up, only to fall back down on his ass, looking up at a very concerned looking Isaac.

He was going to yell something about him being a freak, and ask if it was a werewolf thing to sneak up on people, but he didn't have it in him. He just sighed and scooted over when Isaac went to sit next to him.

It wasn't like they were friends, really. Actually, Stiles would describe their relationship more like wanting to punch each other in the face a hundred percent of the time. Yeah, that seemed more accurate; though, he couldn't deny, that was mostly only to cover up the fact that he had the hugest crush on the guy. But he'd never admit that, of course.

"You okay?" The werewolf's voice nearly startled him. With Scott, they'd just sit there. Not talk. It was hard for him to talk, because there was this ball in his throat, and it made his voice crack. He nodded, barely so, and just stared blankly at the tombstone. He heard Isaac shift in what he assumed was discomfort, to a more comfortable position, with his legs laid out in front of him and his arms stretched out behind him to support his body.

"My mom died, too," he said, carefully. He glanced over at the other teenager. There was a cut, tiny but visible, on his left cheek and it reminded him just how fragile he was - just how _human _he was, and the thought made his jaw tighten in slight frustration, but he didn't comment. Stiles made no sound, no gesture of acknowledgement, so Isaac simply continued.

"Can't remember how old I was. Eleven or twelve, I think. I'm not too sure. Guess I try to push the memory away so much that it… it made me forget." Again, Stiles said nothing, but he saw that Stiles' eyes were watering, and he knew he wasn't helping. "I uh.. I used to think that life sucked, right after that.. happened. She got sick, and I… I know it wasn't my fault, but I guess that doesn't matter, right?"

Finally, Stiles turned to him. He didn't say anything, didn't make any gesture. He just stared, and Isaac was unsure how to take it. He started playing was his fingers, pulling on them and tangling them together, untangling only to tangle them again. He focused on that, and his eyes wouldn't look up for anything. He was getting nervous and he couldn't help it. "You always blame yourself for things that aren't your fault, Stiles. I mean, we all do, but I.. I know that you're especially fond of doing that. You blame yourself for everything, and I just.. It's not your fault, y'know."

Stiles sniffled loudly again, wiping the tears that were beginning to fall with his sleeve. "I hate you." And Isaac looked up, eyes panicky, unsure where to look, until he looked down at his hands again. He was digging his nails into his palms now, fingernails turning to claws, and he stuttered out something completely stupid. "I.. I know you do, I just thought— I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He was drawing blood now, and tears were stinging the corners of his eyes, but then Stiles' hand was on top of his own; gentle, soothing, and his claws turned back to fingernails. He looked up at the other, slowly, crystal blue eyes shining with tears. Stiles' looked him in the eyes, and took one of Isaac's bleeding hands into his own. "Isaac."

His voice was firm, and Isaac gulped. He had made a mistake, hadn't he? Was Stiles going to hurt him? He didn't know, and it made him want to rub his sweaty palms against his jeans to work out the nerves. "Yeah?" He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Golden-brown eyes were staring into his own blue ones, and he couldn't.

Stiles didn't say anything, just pulled the other in for a tight hug. Isaac's eyes went wide, but soon hugged back, closing them and nuzzling into Stiles' neck. He could feel the gentle sobs that made Stiles' body shudder, and ran his hand soothingly over the other teen's back, trying not to cry himself.

When they pulled away from each other, neither of them had any idea how much time had passed or how many tears they'd cried, but they were left feeling empty and numb and yet so warm and complete. Neither of them said a word as they parted ways, Stiles to his Jeep and Isaac to go back to work - because of course, he was still hooked on making his life a living hell by working at the damn cemetery.

When they saw each other again the next time, they didn't mention what had happened that day; not the hug, not the tears, and not the words that were spoken. But they wouldn't forget. And both of them knew, somewhere deep down, that this was the beginning of a tradition they'd both learn to grow accustomed to.


End file.
